The Seafarer

What land-favoured man doubts
his own lot's luck? Let him reckon
the sea-spent winter's exile:
how I weathered the hellish rows
below decks, those dire hours
lashed to the prow, tossing
alone through heart-shearing grief;
the roiling seas, keel-breaking reefs,
our constant threat of a certain doom--
for being kinless, no comfort I knew
could ease the ravenous hunger.

     And all the while
I strained to hear above the surging surf
some comrade's laughter, a solitary gull's
mocking caw, for thrill of knowing
another shared my misery--might
guide towards some hospitable harbour--
but no kind burgher beckoned
to join at his humble hearth's great bounty.
How could he imagine
the sea's relentless toll?

     Content with home fare,
the choicest cuts, sweet wines,
he has no need of adventure,
to navigate life's most treacherous trails;
knows nothing of ice-bound shores
impending sorrows, northern nights
swathed in bitter rime.
For him there's joy enough
in harps, the cuckoo's gay trill,
maidens dancing through summer
meadows awash in colours.
     Still, drunk on youth,
my heart surges with the tide, scent
of sea-salt waves throwing me on-wards
towards strangers distant shores;
to follow in the whale's wake
over the earth's ample girth.
     For God's grace,
an ocean's embrace is far greater a gift
than any land's dead loan of life.
All earthy pleasures will succumb to one
of the inevitable three--plague, old age, rage--
and only the praise of those left at the grave
may leave a lasting fame. From foes
respect for deeds, wars won, are heavenly
hosannas earned, vigilance against
devilish fiends...

Ken e Bujold

© 2022

Author's Note

A modern take on one of the oldest pieces of English literature. The Seafarer in the Book of Exeter. I first attempted this piece while in Univ in the early 80s. On and off through the years, I've returned to it, never quite happy with my translation from old English. This version is a stripped down, with certain verses repositioned, and others dropped. For those who find it interesting, or who are aware of the work of Ezra Pound or Reynolds Price, I acknowledge the mastery of both over my humble attempt

Reviews

[Stuart Munro]

Hi Ken , I Dont know much about English Literature , as I never read anything , apart from poetry site poems , I did years ago after puberty for some reason lol,
As someone who knows nothing about poetry , Having been on Nelson ship , below decks and watching ships of the period in films , your poem catches that era perfectly , and the poetry Word skills you have
Are impressive , I’m just Pleased I did not live at that time , got hit over the head , and found my self on a ship in the middle of an ocean ,

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks for the review Stuart. I share your joy of not living in an era where we might have been pressed into duty. The period this poem evokes is even earlier, when they had to skirt coast lines and resort to manual oarring to get where they were going. An hell I surely wouldn't wish on anyone

[Stuart Munro]

Pleased you liked the review ,Ken , have a Great night

[Richard🖌]

Ahoy, Ken! ⚓

Sooo very much enjoyed … this masterful rendition of the 10th century epical classic elegy … I can only begin to imagine the challenge of translating it into contemporary language. Kudos to you in doing so to compose this most excellent work of Poetic Prose.
Particularly, your enunciations are fabulously, syntactically formed with such visually vivid detail in thought, feeling, and emotion, that the mind and heart is kept vicariously captivated and engaged from stem to stern … indeed, what landlubber would ever grasp the joyous pride of growing and knowing seafarer's legs on a rolling deck, the smell of the sea under weigh, a sky of endless stars, the glitter of krill at night in a spilled bow wave, or singing slap of sail, the creak of rigging.
Ahhh, a bushel of farthings for a day 'n night 'board a sloop on the brine....

Well, one could pontificate until their welcome's worn thin.
Let me close with a simple and humble, "Amen!" ⁓ Richard🖌

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you richard, and from your rollicking review I think you might be capable of a fine translation of this English classic

Ken e

[Chris Shaw]

Your words unfolded into a rolling picture of images. You captured the mood and conditions of an angry sea following a whale's trail. I particularly enjoyed your choice of vocab. Sight.sound, touch and taste stimulated.by this piece. Great ambience here.

Chris

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks Chris for the kind review. God knows, I certainly worked at it :)

[Chris Shaw]

It shows :)

[Light]

The way you use words is so interesting, it seems like you’ve carefully picked each one out and made sure it was in its rightful place. Beautiful poem!

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you, Light. And indeed that is exactly how it goes. Poetry is like building. For a house to stand all the bricks have to be placed just so

[Neville]

it seems to me sir you are far too modest and far too good at this poetry thing that I first fell in love with more moons ago now than I care to remember .. one thing for sure tho' .. I am mightily impressed with the ink you have spilt to date .. I take my hat off to you my fine literary friend .......... Neville :)

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you ever so much my kind sir, though I fear too much fine praise as this might make my cap too small for this swollen head

[Im His Daughter]

Wow, you have a great vocabulary of words.. This is a great write. Very good!

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you im for the read and the praise of what many might suggest several other synonyms for

[W. Barrett Munn]

This is like a young man describing the horrors and fright of the roller coaster ride he's just been on then says, it was great, you have to do it! I admire your take on this, Ken. I doubt I could do it justice.
Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

I wouldn't wish it on Winston. Like I mentioned in my notes, my first attempt at translating this from Old English was as an undergrad (1982). I don't know why, hubris probably. But I stuck with it and managed a passable work. Left it. I was aware of Pound's version, a sort of hybrid mid new english I like to call it. A few years late I read Reynolds Price's version. Price for my money is one of the greatest, most unsung Poet's of the last half century. Anyhow he inspired me to revisit my work, and on and off through who knows how many versions this poem has owned me. I never have been ever truly satisfied, and this version is likely no different, though it's a much stripped down version and more to the essence of what I consider the heart of the story, so we'll see.

thanks for the kind review